The Diablo Vignettes
by Warriorsong
Summary: REVERSIONED. Short pieces detailing possible motivations for characters such as Wirt, Adria, Farnham and Griswold. Also a slightly more plausible reason than that given in game for the event locations The Hive and The Crypt in Hellfire.


**The Diablo Vignettes**

R E V E R S I O N E D

A Diablo (Hellfire) Fan Fiction

By Nicholas Clark (Warriorsong)

_Comprised of the original __fanfiction's "Retribution Most Foul", "Divine Calling", "Lingering Seeds of Evil", "Numbed Haunting" and "Forged Spirit"_

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RETRIBUTION MOST FOUL

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_"THE BLACKSMITH FOUND THE BOY, BUT ONLY AFTER THE FOUL BEASTS HAD BEGUN TO TORTURE HIM FOR THEIR SADISTIC PLEASURES" - CAIN_

_"I KNOW THAT HE HAS SUFFERED AND SEEN HORRORS THAT I CANNOT IMAGINE, BUT SOME OF THAT DARKNESS HANGS OVER HIM STILL" - GILLIAN_

_"THERE IS MUCH ABOUT THE FUTURE WE CANNOT SEE, BUT WHEN IT COMES, IT WILL BE THE CHILDREN WHO WIELD IT. THE BOY WIRT HAS A BLACKNESS UPON HIS SOUL, BUT HE POSES NO THREAT TO THE TOWN OR ITS PEOPLE. HIS SECRETIVE DEALINGS WITH THE URCHINS AND UNSPOKEN GUILDS OF NEARBY TOWNS GAIN HIM ACCESS TO MANY DEVICES THAT CANNOT BE EASILY FOUND IN TRISTRAM. WHILE HIS METHODS MAY BE REPROACHFUL WIRT CAN PROVIDE ASSISTANCE FOR YOUR BATTLE AGAINST THE ENCROACHING DARKNESS." - ADRIA_

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The gloom that hung over the town of Tristram seemed like a shroud, a dusky half light that remained the same whether it was midnight or midday. From where he stood, he could see the town clearly, from the outskirts through the town square; it's battered and cracked well, spilling fresh water over the jagged stone lip, through to the ramshackle abode of the witch over the far side of the stream.

He held no illusions whatsoever. He wasn't wanted in the town, nor was the custom he generated, vagabonds and mercenaries. He was tolerated; pitied by those he had looked up to all his young life. Even the pure and innocent barmaid Gillian could sense the air of cynicism that surrounded him.

Help had been offered, both the healer and blacksmith had offered to help him with employment and chores, the witch even offering to aid him on occasion. He had turned them down, throwing offers he believed given in pity, back into their faces with equal measure of contempt.

Now he was left alone, occasionally irritating the nervous barman with a presence the tavern keeper believed unsavoury and wiling away his spare hours watching the drunkard Farnham.

He missed his mother, Canace. He didn't blame her for his being taken; at least he hoped he didn't. He blamed her for leaving him alone.

But he was never really alone. The thoughts and musing occupied his mind, assaulting his brain with dark thoughts and half-formed desires. And this desire? An all encompassing hatred, a need to destroy and unmake. To inflict upon others what was inflicted upon him.

But not anyone in general, anyone in specific. A murderous bloodlust to destroy the darkness. An opposite to the drunk. Farnham had caved to the images and visions, letting them destroy his soul, casting it into oblivion before the body could follow. He, he had resisted; turned the pain into anger and eventually a fiery hatred.

But it burned. His hate ate at him, consuming his soul as surely as the creatures within the monastery had consumed his flesh, leaving him broken and crippled before he was fully formed, leaving him unable to extract his revenge.

So, he aided others to destroy the dark. Not for any divine good or feeling of returning something in aid to the type who had saved him, the heroes. He wanted the creatures dead, that was pure, yet he wanted to create the means to his end and in turn theirs.

Money, gold, jewels and rare artefacts would grant him what he wished. Social conscience had fled with his innocence. He would one day be able to take arms against the dark himself and he would triumph, wading through the blood of the demon and climbing a hill of their skulls.

And the money came in, weapons for the mercenaries that came from as far off as the Eastern Dunes and the Northern Steppes. He cared not for them as individuals, but as a means to his all-encompassing end.

In time he would be able to seek out the alchemist and for his hoard of riches the mage would grant him a new leg, harvested from the dead and the dying as well as the demonic. He would make himself anew in a visage to strike fear in the terror and he would claim his retribution.

His soul was a lesser commodity, it was not of value to him anymore.

No matter the means, most foul or most fair, he would repay the dark in kind.

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_"I GUESS I OWE THE BLACKSMITH MY LIFE - WHAT THERE IS OF IT. SURE, GRISWOLD OFFERED ME AN APPRENTICESHIP AT THE SMITHY, AND HE IS A NICE ENOUGH GUY, BUT I'LL NEVER GET ENOUGH MONEY TO... WELL, LETS JUST SAY THAT I HAVE DEFINITE PLANS THAT REQUIRE A LARGE AMOUNT OF GOLD." - WIRT_

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DIVINE CALLING

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"_THE WITCH ADRIA IS AN ANOMALY HERE IN TRISTRAM. SHE ARRIVED SHORTLY AFTER THE CATHEDRAL WAS DESECRATED, WHILE MOST EVERYONE ELSE WAS FLEEING. SHE HAD A SMALL HUT CONSTRCUTED AT THE EDGE OF THE TOWN SEEMINGLY OVERNIGHT, AND HAS ACCESS TO MANY STRANGE AND ARCANE ARTEFACTS AND TOMES OF KNOWLEDGE THAT EVEN I HAVE NEVER SEEN BEFORE." - CAIN_

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It pains me, terribly so. It pains me that I must watch the darkness grip this small town from its sanctured abode within the consecrated ground of the Horadrim monastery. That the all-encompassing evil deems this sad town a fitting receptacle for his hellish rage.

Yet within that sadness and the melancholy brought on by watching the townspeople, those left, suffer under an evil that they cannot comprehend. It affects them all, in ways varied and diverse as their personalities.

The boy Wirt has a blackness on his soul yet he is harmless and claims a loyalty to the town. The drunk Farnham is a broken man, his soul shattered and lying ale-soaked in the pit that was his mind. The tavern keeper gets worse as time passes, his nervous twitch more noticeable than when I first crested the hills surrounding the vale that this town lies in. Sleeping with evil, if not bedded down with it. And slowly, the will to live is sapped from the old matron and Garda, the tavern mistress.

Yet some rally against the darkness in small ways and this is what makes the pain bearable, that simple men and women fight against the unknown presence shrouded over their land without knowing why, other than that it is what they feel they need to do.

The healer, Pepin, devoting himself to the sick and ailing, a condition in abundance, but not put upon, willing and eager to help in any way he can. Cain the storyteller, an aide and voice of reason in the town council, while not aiding in battle, granting knowledge of the monstrosities to those that will listen. And Griswold, a man battered in both soul and body by the horrors, who while unable to fight himself, combats the dark through his skill and the training of new warriors.

And the real surprise? That a girl can still retain her innocence, pure in body and soul, amidst the dark times that seethe around her like a whirlpool. Gillian has a heart as bountiful as the fields of The High Heavens and a spirit white as unsullied snow.

I feel for them as I stand before my cottage, a collection of driftwood and planks, harbouring secrets that many would consign their very souls to hell to own. But not these people. They have a bond, a loyalty to each other and their hometown.

I envy them. I envy their lives, their loves and their triumphs and even tragedies. I envy that they can choose what they will be and who they will be. Not like I.

Clad, as I am, feminine, the only mark of my true being the streak of white that hangs to the side of my head, amidst the raven black hair. It is a badge of what I was, to me, yet a badge of what I am to them.

Witch. If only they knew.

I wish to aid them, it's what I was sent here for. To guide from the sidelines and watch over them, a shepherd over a flock. To watch and beware the wolf that howls in the darkness.

Yet they fear me. They fear what they believe me to be and they fear the power they sense hidden inside me. They do not know why. A glamour, as much as it hurts to remain apart, when I am used to the company of brothers and sisters, to save them from themselves.

To save me from myself.

It strikes me that I can now understand how many of us came and lived among them and the joy they must have felt, to aid and guide, teach and exemplify when we had done naught but watch, wait and strive in the endless millennia stretching before.

Yet I know it cannot last. The darkness will rise, leaving this town a burning husk and I, witch, what will become of me. Will I be among the lost or will I be called back to The High Heavens and shed my earthly form, alighting on wings of light to my home and my place amidst my loved ones, amongst The Heavenly Host?

So I wait and I watch. Pain.

I am angel, yet because I cannot aid them I feel devil.

Yet I am angel, and my way lies before me.

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Adria turned and entered her shack, the autumn leaves blowing off the trees and dancing in the air she had just vacated. The warmth inside her small abode seemed like an affront to the chill both outside the shack and within her very core.

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LINGERING SEEDS OF EVIL

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Garin stared at the bronze pool of ale on the thick oak tabletop before him.

"So much for that," he muttered harshly to himself as remembrance drowned out the background clatter and chatter of the Rising Sun Inn.

The Hero; no one had ever gotten his name, except maybe Cain, and he wasn't telling; had come stumbling out of the Cathedral, bloodied and naked, dirt and gore caked over his entire body.

He had collapsed in the long grass between the graves.

The villagers had left him alone, fearful of the necropolis, while the other adventures had left him, a sign of respect and had prepared to bury him at dawn, the sun at his head, symbolizing the great journey before him.

Cain had stood, deep into the black night, staring into the gloom of the graveyard.

In the morning, the body of the hero was gone and Cain announced that the terror that blighted the land had departed.

Adria readily confirmed this and the matter was settled.

Now, two weeks on, the adventurers remained, clearing the evil from the dungeons. It had previously been speculated that once their master was laid waste, the creatures would disperse back to whence they had came.

However, the dark taint of Diablo had filtered into the land, poisoning it, allowing the spawn of darkness to remain, anchored by the evil that had once reigned supreme.

Other things had changed also, the crypt closest to where the Hero had fallen had sprouted ornate stonework, a massive demonic head crowning the marker stone, spikes of black twisted iron fencing it off, when once it had been a simple stone cross and granite cover slab.

For several days the adventurers had gathered and speculated on the origin of this magick.

Across the river, at the end of Adria's Isle, as it had became known, the ground had bubbled, a blister rising on the earth made of vines and brambles.

Again the speculation.

Garin had continued doing what he did. Killing. Entering the labyrinth at daybreak and emerging again at dusk, the spoils of war on his back.

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Garin looked up from the now sticky path of ale and looked at the group that advanced towards him.

In the forefront were two people, one man and a woman. The woman was of an athletic build; her leather pants and vest almost skin-tight, the white silk shirt beneath her vest seemed overly bright in the dingy common room, its sleeves folded to the elbow. Her brown hair was lose and hung to her waist. Most captivating, besides her beauty and catlike grace were her hazel eyes, the flecks of blue and green within catching the dancing torchlight and candle flames.

The man beside her was large and dark skinned, heralding his homelands in the East. His bald head gleamed in the light, strange blue, tribal tattoos covering his bald pate and upper back. His muscled chest rippled as he moved, his blue pantaloons billowing. His feet were covered in soft calfskin boot that reached halfway to his knees. They were similar to those the girl wore and as functional, light for ease of movement.

Behind this pair walked two others, one an oriental man, his short body clothed in a loose robe of red and gold, leather sandals on his feet, his fine black hair greased back. The other was a mountain of a man, some seven feet tall, a leather vest, faded with age, stretched across his vast torso. Below that he wore a kilt, the pouch in front, plain, except for the fine horsehair tassels. His tartan was predominately green, occasional stripes of thin red and thinner yellow in its depths. The giant's greyish hair hug down to his shoulder, damp in the torchlight, his beard combed and braided.

Garin pushed his brownish blonde hair from his eyes and tucked the lose ends behind his ears. He straightened from his slouch, his grey shirt wrinkled.

He looked to his comrades, Lylin, the rogue; Armon the Northman; Shoju the diminutive monk and last to the imposing form of Kazanh. The look on Kazanh's face spoke volumes.

Obviously the news was not good.

"Tis like an cancer," muttered Shoju to the large man beside him. Armon grunted as they took seats around the table.

Garda shuffled over to take their orders. Garin had the feeling that no amount of drinks in the world would be able to steady him for this conversation.

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NUMBED HAUNTING

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"_OGDEN IS THE BEST MAN IN TOWN. I DON'T THINK HIS WIFE LIKES ME MUCH, BUT AS LONG AS SHE KEEPS TAPPIN' KEGS, I'LL LIKE HER JUST FINE. SEEMS LIKE I BEEN SPENDIN MORE TIME WITH OGDEN THAN MOST BUT HE'S SO GOOD TO ME..." - FARNHAM_

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His old body rocked back and forth, the cold earth of the dead township chilling his bones and anchoring him to a nightmarish reality.

The blurred sensations of muscle and environs flickered on the edge of his intoxicated mental meanderings.

And he preferred it like that. While his clouded mind registered the dislike and pity of the remaining villagers, he failed to care. Whether he had lost the capacity or simply didn't care, it eluded him. Again something he preferred. It took less effort and suffering to not care.

He sensed through the fog, the dislike of the innkeeper and his wife, the contempt of the boy they had saved, the concern of the healer and through all that the unwavering friendship of the blacksmith.

But there was always pity.

Moments of such lucidity were easily rectified by large draughts of Northland firewater, chased by ale, blocking the pain and memories, drowning them in the haze of inebriation.

He had escaped, he and the blacksmith, evading the lair of the beasts with scant others, the boy cradled in the blacksmith's gigantic arms, and they had announced the duplicity of Lazarus. Lazarus. The man whom he had held in higher regard than the King himself, a man who had foresworn all his own words and sermons that had at one time touched the drunkard's heart, a man who had accepted the demons he preached against, not only into his heart, but his immortal soul.

And then they had spoken to him, his friends, those he saw ripped asunder and feasted upon by the walking pestilence and pulped by the feet of a massive bestial overlord with a gore stained axe.

They cried for vengeance and release from the prison their souls inhabited, locked by their own last fleshy desire for justice.

And the pain he felt, that his faith was sorely misplaced in one man rather than the ideals he spoke of. That this man, holy and righteous beyond mortal scope could fall so far into the all encompassing dark.

And then in his dreams they came to him and then when his eye's sagged from lack of sleep.

And in a fit of depression, he found his release in the dregs of a tankard.

And the pain was gone, the voices silent and the visions curtained out by the alcohol, his incredulation and pain sinking away with every swallow.

And when they returned he dulled them once more, harsher and deeper he buried them in his stupor as the screams became louder.

In his fugue he took what he wanted, his gold long since gone, maybe Griswold tempered the innkeeper's anger, maybe pity offerings from the nameless warriors. He didn't know and the small inclination to care exited more and more with each mouthful.

Then the wanderers had come with more frequency, although time meant nothing in his world, speaking to the villagers and speaking to him.

Harder and harder it became to shunt the horrors away, questions, always questions, burning into his soul, dispersing the fogs of self imposed madness, the taint of evil on the adventurers clawing at his noise like the oh so familiar iron tang of blood. His friends blood, his own.

He could feel the earth under him changing, more warmth, the life-giving heat of the soil, not the damnable fire of corruption.

Farnham knew what was happening, care, not a factor. He could see the cloud blurred sky lightening daily in his decreasing vision, as his vice led to blindness and death.

Perhaps the dreamless sleep would release the hold his memories had on him.

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"_I WAS WITH FARNHAM THAT NIGHT THAT LAZARUS LED US INTO THE LABYRINTH. I NEVER SAW THE ARCHBISHOP AGAIN, AND I MAY NOT HAVE SURVIVED IF FARNHAM WAS NOT AT MY SIDE. I FEAR THAT THE ATTACK LEFT HIS SOUL AS CRIPPLED AS, WELL, ANOTHER DID MY LEG. I CANNOT FIGHT THIS BATTLE FOR HIM NOW BUT, I WOULD IF I COULD." - GRISWOLD_

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FORGED SPIRIT

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The sweat beaded on his brow as his arm pistoned down, slamming into the white hot steel, flakes of the ultra heated metal bouncing like demented sparks, set free, to smoulder and char against the thick leather apron.

The heat from his forge warmed the predawn smithy to a smothering heat, a noonday heat. With the sun, came a desert like warmth, trees and crops withering to dust within weeks. The farmers had left, their families, starving and impoverished by the harsh place that was once the main township of the Kingdom of Westmarch.

Night was cold, the flaming discs light gone, its heat taken with it, leaving the darkness. Darkness that chilled body and soul as the scurrying horrors that feast upon the waste, rummaged under windows and on stoops.

And like a man driven, the hammer pounded, like a clock, rhythmic and final, tolling the inevitable death to the fiends which haunted both his waking hours and his chaotic dreams.

And the hammer falls.

A sword is but an object, not deadly in itself but used to the purpose by those of like mind. An axe is a tool of destruction, yet it can give warmth from wood or take it away with a fell swipe. An arrow can provide food to give life or take it with a well aimed shot.

A balance in everything, even in the fine blades that adorned the walls, awaiting their destiny like men, to be used or be the user.

Balance, within and without.

He matched his work. The forge of blasted rock and the body of hardened tissue. The anvil of black iron meeting the hammer and the beating of his heart.

His spirit like the fire, his anger and purpose a bellows, fanning the flames atop a heat that could shine like the sun, bring warmth. Bring warmth via the hope of a better tomorrow.

Hope. Hope was lost to him, his mortality defined as the creatures tore the living flesh from his body and he aided the forms of his comrades and the boy from the darkness beneath. And his destiny became clear. Aid them, those who seek that tomorrow, for while he could not fight alongside those who sought his skill and tutelage, he could give them the knowledge that could define a future better than the yesterday.

What one man does in the face of crisis; is simply what he must.

Driven by the fire of his heart, the smithy of his body and the bellows of his pain, his hands imbued his soul, forged his spirit into his weapons so that the darkness might one day leave the land and give hope to those with none.

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The hammer bounced and the final blows rung out on the steel, now a dull grey, its body formed into a weapon that spoke of purpose, a desire like its creator, with a heart that beat for ideals held above all else, freedom. That to choose, live and love, without the yokes of tyranny and evil.

Man can choose his way, the light or the dark, yet steel cannot. While it may be forged of both, taken from the dark and made in the light, its use, defines it, makes it feared or respected.

The edge gleamed dully, seeming sharp, yet without the gentle kiss of whetstone.

It gleamed red, the tongue of dawn, sliding through the shutters of the smithy and caressing the edge of the sword.

It sung to Griswold, a simple everyday thing, but one that spoke of an age old promise. That men could be forged to, and from those events that smelted them, become stronger and full of spirit.

Yet spirit could not decide its path, no more than steel.

Man defined his path. And the path forked.

The hammer rang as the large man, his round face red in the heat, his torso finely muscled beneath his apron, beat it against the steel.

His large blue eyes shed tears, which disappeared into his thick reddish grey beard. Hope and pain, anger and love, all these were human.

Lost in his emotions and memories, the blade sang of its completion, the ding of the hammer solid and profound.

And forged of spirit, the blade would take up its task and carve a future, of light and hope from the cancer that surrounded it.

The thick set man muttered under his breath, the words heard by none but the sword.

Flames ran along its edge, his edge, the mans edge, Griswold's Edge, and spoke of the kindred beneath, their forged spirits.

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Disclaimers

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Diablo is owned and copyright 1996 by Blizzard Entertainment and Blizzard North, registered trademarks of Davidson and Associates Inc. Hellfire is owned and copyright by Sierra Interactive.

If any of this information is wrong, my most humble apologies. No copyright infringement is intended, this is merely a work of fan fiction. I am in no way affiliated to any of these companies and people and what not. Thanks for reading.

Retribution Most Foul - Written (finished) 27th December 2000. Compiled 27th December 2000. Re-edited 13th January 2003. Divine Calling - Written (finished) 29th December 2000. Compiled 29th December 2000. Re-edited 13th January 2003. Lingering Seeds Of Evil - Written (finished) 2nd February to 25th February 2001. Compiled 25th February 2001. Re-edited 13th January 2003. Numbed Haunting - Written (finished) 13th April 2001. Compiled 14th April 2001. Re-edited 13th January 2003. Forged Spirit - Written (finished) 13th April 2001. Compiled 14th April 2001.

Kind of wanted to do one for all the characters but well, these four seemed the most appropriate. Pepin and Cain had enough back stories in the game and Ogden and Gillian really aren't much more than quest dispenser/story point and filler characters anyhow. That and it's a long time after the fact. Still a wicked game though, set a benchmark, that's for sure. Reversioned 3rd Jan 2008.


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